A number of the papers you require will be made out by my cousin today. At the same time my uncle in St. Louis wrote that he will expedite the matter on his end and that the documents will be in my possession soon. All that’s needed after that is proof of my employment. In that connection I looked up my former employer here, who seemed to regret seeing me settle in New York. He offered to provide references I can present to firms there, which may or may not help.
My friends are trying to persuade me to stay in Buffalo. After surveying the situation here, however, I find that my chances appear to be better in New York. Naturally there are disadvantages to living in the big city because, in general, life is much more pleasant here, quite aside from the fact that the scarcity of apartments has assumed serious proportions in New York. Despite that, the advantages ought to outweigh those disadvantages. Finding a job there shouldn’t take more than a week or two. Wish me luck.
I wonder if you’re aware of something that was in the newspapers recently. It allegedly will be possible to correspond with displaced persons via UNRRA, but you would have to initiate the process on your end. Are you familiar with that? It might be a good thing, because then we could be sure that mail would arrive. Perhaps we could try it alternately one way, then the other. What do you think?
At last I’ve acquired some civilian clothes, a suit, which ought to enable me to send you some photos soon. It was no simple matter to get this suit. These days you have to take what there is. Imagine, I went to the very large clothing factory owned by my relatives, and they had nothing in my size. They had to refer me to one of the retailers with whom they do business. Naturally, as soon as things start rolling, there’ll be more of everything available than anybody might need. For the moment, though, everything is at a standstill, due to the countless strikes, at a time when there are masses of returning servicemen. Also, it seems that manufacturers are still geared, at least in part, to military orders and are only gradually converting to civilian needs.
Buffalo can be quite ugly in winter, stripped down to a bare and gloomy appearance. So I expect the white stuff will last till the weekend, when we’ll take some photos. You see, right now the snow has turned everything into a magnificent fairy-tale landscape, even though it is so deep that cars are forever getting stuck in it. No change there since I went away.
I feel it’s ludicrous to write such nonsense to you, but I’m thinking that you too might be interested in what I’m observing since my return.
Love,
Kurt
Munich, December 1, 1945
Dearest Kurt,
Above all I have to report what I accomplished at the Swiss consulate. All I found out was that admission to that country is totally blocked for the time being, and that a transit visa is completely out of the question. At any rate I’m supposed to come back in three to four weeks. Although it was conveyed to me in the nicest possible manner, it means the doors remain closed.
Following that, I went to the Polish Committee to learn more about the stuff they filled my head with before, but unfortunately couldn’t see the gentleman who two or three days ago promised me Switzerland on a silver platter. Another one suggested Paris, as before! Next I’ll have to visit the Polish Military Government on Monday, and subsequently the French one. He promised to discuss the matter with a French captain who is a good friend of his. Despite all that I haven’t altogether given up hope regarding Switzerland, because my Swiss acquaintance with whom I discussed the matter—I’ve written about him before—was not the type to make empty promises.
In any case there is a lot of running around to do. If it keeps up like this I should soon be able to take an exam as a tourist guide for Munich, and you can probably do the same in New York! Kurt, don’t we have marvelous occupations! Actually there’s nothing I like better than to flit about like that. Peculiar pleasure, don’t you think?
To be honest I can’t really focus on my work these days; my thoughts and worries do distract me a great deal. It’s true that the office can be quite amusing at times, but it’s the environment that is so, rather than the work itself. Actually they’ve now given me greater responsibility and independence, a wider circle of autonomy, yet there are always constraints and regulations, as a result of which the inflexible point inevitably wins out. Initially I thought it was just what I had longed for, that it would give me a measure of satisfaction, but even when you were still here I already realized that it would turn into failure from that point of view.
I discussed it recently with various people and had to listen to their advice: “Do you want to expend all your heart and compassion on each and every case? Soon you’ll be shattered by it.” I see the logic of it and realize how immature it was to harbor unrealistic expectations along those lines, which held within them the hope of preventing something “big” from happening. I think I’ve come down to earth since then.
All my love,
Gerda
Soon, after I started my work at the Civilian Censorship Division I realized that my naive hope of finding and exposing a giant plot, something that would substantially aid the American authorities in the pursuit of their postwar administration, was nothing but a pipe dream. Instead I began to see that my role was of very little import, and that the voluminous, painstaking reports I handed in at the end of each day would at best get no more than a cursory reading. I could see that, by and large, there was little of significance in them, and that the American personnel wanted nothing as much as to be relieved of their duties so that they could realize their hope of going home. And I could hardly blame them for it.
Among the letters were those from prisoner-of-war camps, which dealt with pain, longing, and tragedy, which I took all too personally, identifying with some of those feelings. My state of mind at that time was that of someone looking for a home where I could emulate the model of my mother, immaculately dressed, aproned, and setting a table with flowers, immersing myself in cooking, baking, and entertaining a host of guests. In view of my impending marriage, that was the vision that beckoned.
Once I was able to realize this dream, it turned out that I fell woefully short of the ideal, at least by the standards my mother maintained throughout my childhood. Eventually I was to fulfill my early hopes of someday becoming a writer; nevertheless I like to think of my ultimate achievement as having been able to create a warm and loving home for my family.
Munich, December 2, 1945
My beloved Kurt,
What could possibly have happened now? you will justifiably ask. As soon as I put down my pen last night I went to sleep, and now am picking it up again during the first moments after waking up, for I must share something rather beautiful with you. Yesterday I wrote you so much because my thoughts of you permeated every waking hour. And blessedly paper is so patient and my pen did not run out of ink, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you ran out of patience by now.
Last night transported me back to a child’s paradise, a colorful fairytale world, filled with faith in everything that is good and beautiful. At the same time, I saw the reality of life, but was unable to dismiss the legends that have nourished me. Are there, after all, no fairy tales for grown-ups? Yet, I know that there are wonderful, magnificent miracles, if only you open your heart and mind to them, instead of being oblivious to that part of life which lends meaning to our existence and which seems to elude so many.
I fell asleep, a deep sleep without dreams. Suddenly, something very soft and gentle woke me up, and my startled eyes looked straight at the moon, which hung smack in the center of the window. It somehow struck me as a question, a pleasant though eerie feeling; a message no doubt from you.
Were you just looking at the moon as well, and did you transmit that message by the sheer magic of our love? I felt enveloped by a sense of well-being and total bliss. The entire experience took perhaps just three seconds; then it was over, and I fell asleep again. Does that sound strange?
Julius and Helene Weissmann, circa 1920,
in the garden of the Weissmann home, Bielsko, Poland.
Kurt and friends, emulating their “Western heroes,” 1932 or 1933. (Kurt is far left.)
Mountaintop near Oberammergau, Bavaria, which Kurt climbed in 1933 while vacationing with Richard and Klärle Mayer.
The same spot, twelve years later, when Kurt was stationed at a U.S. Army post near Munich.
Kurt’s family in the yard of his family home in Walldorf. Front, Ludwig (father), Alice (mother); back, Irmgard (sister “Gerdi”), Kurt, and Max (brother).
Needlepoint made by Gerda’s mother, Helene Weissmann, for her brother, Leo, in 1937. It took five years to complete.
Gerda and her brother, Artur Weissmann, circa 1936.
Gerda’s father, Julius, at her uncle Leo’s wedding in Turkey, 1937.
Artur at Krynica (a Polish resort) in 1936, with his maternal grandmother.
Artur at Krynica in 1936.
Gerda and her mother at Krynica, 1939.
Kurt in Walldorf, 1937, in front of memorial honoring John Jacob Astor, a native of the town.
Gerda’s brother, Artur, 1937.
Gerda at Krynica, July 1939.
Dorle Ebbe at her home in Wiesbaden (late thirties).
Gerda’s mother, Helene, at Krynica, 1939.
Gerda’s ID photo, 1940, used during the war.
Gerda’s maternal uncle, Leo, in Istanbul in the early forties.
Kurt studying a map during an advance across France, July 1944.
Gerda photographed by Kurt in Munich, summer 1945.
Kurt at Freising, Bavaria, army post, summer 1945.
Kurt in Metz, France, autumn 1944.
Kurt in France after the, American breakthrough, 1944.
Kurt in Buffalo, New York, December 1945.
At engagement party, September 14, 1945.
Kurt in France, 1944.
Gerda in Perlacher Forst, the woods near the house she lived in (outskirts of Munich), summer 1945.
Gerda convalescing in Volary, Czechoslovakia, army hospital, June 1945.
Gerda in Munich, September 14 the day after her engagement.
Gerda in Paris, June 1946, around the time of the wedding.
Kurt at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York, spring 1946.
Gerda and Kurt’s wedding day, Paris, June 18, 1946, in hotel lobby.
Gerda in Paris, June 1946, around the time of the wedding.
Kurt in Paris, June 1946, before the wedding.
Gerda in Rochester, New York, 1947.
Gerda and Kurt at the Lilac Festival, Rochester, New York, May 1947.
Gerda with (left to right) Leslie, Vivian, and Jim, taken by the Associated Press in 1957, the year Gerda’s first book, All But My Life, was published.
Las Vegas, 1990.
Gerda acknowledging the Academy Award for the documentary One Survivor Remembers, in 1996. © Copyright Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
Gerda and Kurt’s entire family of sixteen in Aruba, June 1996, on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
What I had been hoping for was a marvelous fairy tale, one that comes true, like the one about a prince in uniform, coming to the rescue in a Jeep just in the nick of time. Do you know it? Please tell little Barbara many fairy tales, so that you won’t get out of practice.
But truly, Kurt, the above was not a figment of my imagination; it really did happen last night. I think that for the first time the name you gave me, Miss Moonbeam, fits. And that creature from out there in space loves you very much.
Gerda
Munich, December 3, 1945
My dearest Kurt,
Well, I went to the Polish military authority and found it to be the best and most reliable source. I must say that the result of my inquiry looks promising. Unfortunately—there is always an “unfortunately”—I find different sources daily and am sorry to drive you crazy with all those possibilities. The Polish officer in charge here wore an American Third Army uniform—the same as yours—and spoke Polish. Since I have an affinity for lieutenants in that uniform, I felt very much at home. The only thing missing was the diamond of the Fifth Division. Listening to my story, he exclaimed, “And you are still here?” He assured me that all I needed was the certificate of my admission to the United States, based on your assurance that you will marry me upon my arrival. If I could produce that, he would be able to take care of the matter immediately. When I asked him how I could get out of Germany, he laughed and assured me that he would take care of it for me once the required documents are here. So please send them as soon as possible. I really have high hopes, and seeing the Polish military working alongside the Americans, I’m sure I won’t have too much trouble.
I have met with some of the girls I knew in camp and am rather depressed and keenly disappointed. Some seem extremely enterprising and are flourishing, in a wild drive toward material success, which is easily available here, what with the black market, etc. But most of them are in a state of abysmal resignation, pain, and loss, without any aim. When recounting the past we have a bond in common, but when it comes to the future, we seem to dwell on different planets. Everybody thinks I am insane to work, but I would go out of my mind if I didn’t. Have they changed so much or have I? I am certain, though, that my anchor to normality lies in rejoining you. The core of my focus is our love and our future, but I do wish that others would have that too. I hope there is mail from you tomorrow and that it will include mail from Uncle Leo—and I pray, oh, God, I pray so hard that it will bring positive news of Artur.
Love and kisses,
Gerda
Buffalo, December 3, 1945
My very dearest little Gerda,
Your much-longed-for letter was received with great delight. It was good to get mail from you, even if its content didn’t exactly evoke undistilled joy. The lot of the girls who wound up in the German Museum is particularly heartrending in view of the many promises made by the various organizations that appear to have neither the understanding, intent, nor the imagination to alleviate those indescribable conditions to the least extent. Please do report more about that. I’m interested in what isn’t being done, in cases where, as I only know too well, it would be relatively simple to render assistance. The fact that the rest of the girls had to leave Volary under such circumstances and once again had to face an absolute blank is a striking example of the criminal stupidity and impotence of the appropriate authorities. I was extraordinarily moved by the death of the girl from Wiesbaden, who seemed to have a good chance of survival on liberation day. At that time, she left a profound impression on me, because of her youth and (still) good looks. She was so terribly young, only seventeen, from what I remember.
I’m quite curious about what they told you at the Joint Distribution Committee, or at UNRRA. It just has to click with Switzerland, and I believe I’ll hear something soon from Turkey about that. Buffalo is getting a bit too much for me. But before I leave I want to investigate a few more possibilities. Although I intend to go back to New York before the week is up, a few job references were made available to me by people who advised me to remain here. I want to follow those up because they sound interesting. I’ll keep you current.
If only you could hear some of the comments I get regarding your photos. Everybody insists that I should take the first opportunity to bring you to Buffalo. Some of my friends plan to attend the University of Buffalo by January. As for me, I’ll presumably attend night school in New York, something that’s been made quite easy due to my army service. It seems like a really good opportunity.
I’ve wanted to write you for a long time regarding the engagement ring. What I found was that it’s not possible to insure parcels to Europe. Thought I’d better not take the chance on sending it off to you without the assurance that it won’t go astray. May I therefore keep one for you until you get here? A proper ring will await you at your arrival! Should I learn of a foolproof way of sending it, well, all the better.
Do you have as much snow as we do here? It’s gradually melting, but could come back at any time, creating the greatest slush, as is common in Buffalo.
Hope you’ll receive the winter coat soon. Do let me know how everything fits.
Ardent smackers from your
Kurt
Among the 120 young women I encountered at the time of their liberation in Volary, Czechoslovakia, was one who startled me by her fragile youth, natural grace, and beauty, even under those diabolic conditions. In speaking to her I discovered that she was sixteen, the youngest among the group, an anomaly in the process of selection the Nazis had methodically employed. As I was to learn later, she had beaten the odds thanks to the sheer persistence and resourcefulness shown by her three sisters. They had managed to shield her by hiding her from the malevolent eyes of the SS inspectors who would make their periodic appearances at the work camps.
Dorle Ebbe was fourteen when she, along with her three sisters, was deported to the work camps, and somehow her siblings had convinced the camp authorities of Dorle’s ability to perform the hard labor required of her in the spinning and weaving mills. She had indeed measured up to those demands, and when freedom finally came, she appeared to be in better health than many who had gone through that ordeal. It was therefore an especially bitter blow to learn that Dorle had succumbed now, six months after liberation, to the barbaric treatment to which her oppressors had subjected her.
The Hours After Page 19
